Victoria's Secret: Her Undies Aren't All They're Cracked Up to Be

Less than a year ago I determined that I'd reached an age at which my lingerie drawer should open to reveal neat rows of matching unmentionable sets. A jumbled collection of mismatched sale offerings from various department stores, Tarjay, and the like no longer seemed right. But where to purchase my new goods? La Perla's too pricey. Agent Provocateur conjures images of Carmen Electra/Paris Hilton trashy--not for me. So I headed to Victoria's Secret, for the first time to do more than elbow my way through the $20 sale bin with 100 of my closest fellow semi-annual sale attendees. A few hundred dollars later, I emerged with two small pink bags whose size seemed not at all commensurate with the cost of the items inside. Once home, my weary rainbow pile of ecclectic coverings gave way to the neat rows of new white, pink, and black satin and lace.

About eight months later, I must report that things have gone to hell in a laundry basket. Little bows are unraveling, trim is coming loose, threads are dangling, lace is tearing. Now, before you screech "Well, did you launder them on delicate in a lingerie bag?" the answer is yes. I cared for them properly. And before you ask anything untoward about their treatment at other times I will say, don't even think about it mister, this is a ladylike blog. Which leads me to one conclusion: Victoria's Secret is all about the name and not so much the product. I offer this merely as a cautionary tale to those tempted to usher in a new phase in life as I did, especially with the onslaught of publicity surrounding next week's televised "fashion show." In short, I've learned that purchasing your most delicate duds somewhere that's not in close proximity to a cookie cake stand and a video game store is a road less unraveled.